


in waves

by fizzinq



Category: Pink Floyd The Wall (1982)
Genre: Meta, Overdosing, i'm really not sure what else to tag this with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 00:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18435011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzinq/pseuds/fizzinq
Summary: is there anybody out there?





	in waves

All Pink could hear were the echoes of his past.

The voices and faces ebbed and flowed through his memory, distorted in his substanced brain like drops in a pond, wavering in ripples gently fading out. They all talked over one another, creating a cacophony despite Pink’s peaceful visage.

“ _Wrong,_ do it again!” One shouted.

“...And it’s a _man_ answering.” Another perused.

“Are you feelin’ okay?” A third asked.

They were so loud, in fact, that Pink couldn’t even hear the knock at his hotel room door. His producer hadn’t had his calls answered for a straight _week_ (the operator - “ _obviously_ an air-headed _bitch,_ ” he spat, slamming the receiver down _again_ that day - had said the line was disconnected), and if he wasn’t gonna get him on the phone, he was gonna have to talk to him face-to-face.

Pink’s eyes twitched and fluttered with uncertainty. His body lay slack and slumped in his chair, left to rot for hours, closed in a coffin of chain locks and fragments of glass, with nobody to check in. His skin was devoid of all color; all that remained were pallid grays, sickly yellows, and the disgusting, rusty red of the scars on his forehead. His elbows, coated in track marks, were bruised in bile, a shade only the sick and the dying could achieve. His fingertips, cold and clammy, slowly curled in around the arms of the chair before finally falling as unconscious as the rest of him. Barely even his blood ran anymore. He was a mess, but that was alright; Pink considered himself just as much of one anyways.

The knocks got louder, more insistent. “Time to go!” was the shout from the producer, pounding on the wood and jiggling the knob. Finally, an official from the hotel was called; he jammed the key in the lock and heard the mechanisms click open, but still it would not budge. The locks on the inside were all done up.

Pink had been high before. Pink had been _very_ high before - there wasn’t much you could expect from a rockstar of his standing. It wasn’t uncommon for him to take _so much_ that his mind started to fail; he had forgotten where he lived, his marital status - he’d forgotten his own _name_ before. Of course, this wasn’t without intention. Pink had certain traumas- no, he wouldn’t say that. Pink had certain _troubles_ that liked to pick at him, eating and burrowing into his brain like worms, ever incessant in their hunger - but he had strategies to hold them back. Usually, he turned to the television; the buzzing of the static in the speakers and the horrifying visions of men crashing to their untimely demise were a mental anesthetic, numbing the pain of the teeth sinking in. However, in his manic, suicidal rage, Pink had thrown his television out of his top-story window, allowing it to shatter in sparks on the sidewalk below. Only a shock of an impetus kept him from throwing himself out with it, and now, he was here. It was if he’d done what he intended.

Out of desperation, Pink turned back to his needle - and had turned quite harshly. It was nice, for him, to feel the rush of the heroin in his veins again. It made calm wash over him; it made him _numb._

But too much of a good thing was never a good thing. Pink overdosed a few hours prior, and now, he was sat, pulseless and blind, in his leather casket.

Despite his catatonia, a thought popped into his mind: _Am I dead?_

Well, of _course_ not. If he were dead, he couldn’t be thinking… Could he? Pink had never had a solid belief in an afterlife, no matter how many times his upbringing told him what was in store for him on the other side. _Was_ he dead? Was he dead medically, if not spiritually? Was he still in his body? Suddenly, he was in a panic, but he couldn’t do anything. He didn’t know _what_ he was.

He was both alive and dead until someone opened the box.

“PINK, YOU _BLOODY_ IDIOT, _OPEN THE DOOR!!_ ”

The box was broken open with a fireman’s axe. It split the wood into splinters and shattered the deadbolt, and the door flew open without a hitch. The producer - a man of certain interests, definitely, with a popped collar, aviators, and cigars in his pocket for his next platinum album - stumbled in through the broken doorframe and swung his head around, impeding the path of the paramedics trying to rush in past him. He took in the scene: the shattered window, the trash littering the floor, the absence of all activity, and the cold stillness of a lifeless room. He hissed through a scowl.

“Oh, _fuck me._ ”


End file.
